


Let Us (Not) Go Caroling

by Arej



Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [12]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Laughter, M/M, Other, and sometimes people other than crowley have reactions to that, aziraphale has excellent taste in clothes just...a little behind the times, feeding the ducks, these two are soft and happy and i would like to keep them that way, they're not really male but it's m/m since i used male pronouns throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21774964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej
Summary: Day 12 for the advent calendar of prompts.Aziraphale takes excellent care of his things and sees no reason not to wear them, but Crowley may have a point about their age...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561027
Comments: 14
Kudos: 159





	Let Us (Not) Go Caroling

There are Dickensian Carolers in St James’ Park. They are holding court at the end of the pathway toward the duck pond, entertaining passers by, and Aziraphale is not amused.

Crowley, meanwhile, is laughing so hard he has to lean on the fence surrounding the pond in order to stay even marginally upright.

“The look on your _face_ ,” he crows, flinging one arm wide in the angel’s general direction. The ducks gathered hopefully below follow its motions intently, disappointed when bread fails to fall from the outstretched fingers. They turn expectant eyes on Aziraphale, who is waiting out the laughter with affronted dignity; he keeps his gaze resolutely ahead and mouth drawn down in disapproval, and refuses to react to Crowley’s theatrical cackling.

“This is a perfectly stylish coat.” He addresses his words to the ducks, who keep their sartorial opinions to themselves; Crowley, however, has no such restraint.

“Oh, certainly, angel, for the 1860s!”

“Well I should hope so, I bought it in 1863,” he retorts, which is exactly the wrong response - Crowley has to put both hands on the fence to keep from falling over, he’s laughing so hard.

“And the _hat_ ,” the fiend squeezes out on a labored exhale. “It can’t be the same from -”

“Of course it is. I take _care_ with my things, Crowley!”

It isn’t truly that surprising, now that he’s had a chance to think about it - now that he’s been forced to think about it, what with Crowley’s unwillingness to drop the subject. The coat and the hat, paired with the gloves, which are also - what is it the humans are calling it now? Oh yes - _vintage_ , and he can see why the carolers mistook him for one of their own. Can even, now that he’s free and a fair few yards away from the group, find some amusement in the misunderstanding.

The scowl on his lips is threatening to twitch around the edges.

Yes, they can’t fully be faulted, but - the man had just been so _rude_ about it! The wayward fellow they mistook him for was late, certainly, but that was hardly reason to berate someone who just happened to look the part walking by -

Oh, who is he kidding. It was hilarious. Has been for some minutes, now that he’s had a chance to settle.

He’s been keeping the scowl to keep Crowley wound up, really, and it’s working beautifully.

With a put upon sigh he reaches up, tugs off the hat, and opens the flaps within. The ducks, despite being some generations removed from the last to see this and hardly able to remember what this gesture precludes, watch Aziraphale’s hands with unnerving focus.

Crowley, spotting this, manages, “Wait, what are you -”

Aziraphale scatters a handful of seed from the hidden bag, setting the ducks aflutter, and Crowley is hanging half over the fence, bent nearly in two, laughing so hard tears splash into the pond below.

After some moments of this - and an increasing struggle to squash the smile trying to worm its way across his face - Aziraphale admonishes him. “Do have some dignity, dear.”

“Dignity?” Crowley retorts from his folded position. His eyes gleam with glee from behind his glasses, knocked askew and tilted awkwardly into his brow as he peers at the angel from the wrong way up. “ _Dignity_? You’re feeding ducks from your _hat_!”

Another scattered handful of seed, another excitable flutter from the ducks, and he peers into the hat. Sighs. “Yes, well.”

Crowley swings himself upright, grinning, face flush with inversion and chill and laughter, and leans into Aziraphale. Slips his hand into the precise angle of the angel’s elbow, sets his chin on the soft shoulder. Little puffs of warm air flutter across the exposed curve of Aziraphale’s ear as he winds down there, laughter tapering slowly into chuckling into an amused hum, and it is nearly impossible not to smile.

It’s more and more often he gets to see Crowley like this, _have_ Crowley like this, loose and relaxed and soft along the edges, but Aziraphale still treasures every single moment, seeks to stretch each one out to the last possible second. 

So he scatters the last handful of seed, upends and thumps the hat for good measure, and settles it back on his head. He pulls his elbow in tighter, traps Crowley’s hand there, covers it with his own and holds it, all while determinedly neither looking at his partner nor smiling. “Shall we?”

But when Crowley turns to lead them from the park, Aziraphale tugs him back. Fights to keep the sparkle from his eyes and the smile from his lips, though he’s only really successful at one of those things.

“Let’s…take the long way,” he offers, with a pointed look at the carolers holding court at the other end of their usual route. There is a beat, and then - 

Crowley’s peals of laughter startle not only the ducks but a flock of pigeons in a nearby tree, until after a minute he acquiesces, wheels them around in the opposite direction.

This time, Aziraphale can’t stop the smile.


End file.
